


Dancing on My Own

by effydodge



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bisexuality, Bromance, Case Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Romance, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-18 05:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/effydodge/pseuds/effydodge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach. John is with Mary. Sherlock is left alone, uncertain of how to process his emotions, 'pining' over John... sort of. It's going to be more complicated than that. As the two work together on a life-threatening case which brings back old enemies (hint), they struggle to rebuilt their friendship. I'm not going to lie, this story's going to be a weird, rambling experiment since I wrote most of it six months ago and now I'm going to fix it/start over. I'm expecting there to be eventual, heavy Jimlock, but not in a rapey way.... Which doesn't rule out the possibility of porn. I'll change the warnings if that happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously I don't own any of the characters or overarching story lines. I own nothing. And the title comes from a song by Robyn, which I'm convinced Jim would have in his iPod, but which I also do not own.

On the complete other end of Mrs. Hudson's crowded living room, through billowing clouds of tobacco smoke and cloyingly-floral perfumes, over an array of poorly-reasoned bets piled on the coffee table and even-more-poorly-concealed hands; moreover through his own disturbing hyper-awareness about the sex-lives of the little old ladies present, Sherlock Holmes was coming to the realization that John Watson had gotten him there under false pretenses.

And that John Watson was unendingly stupid and annoying. And that John Watson only drank beer now and that he was never going to shut up about that pointless, time-sucking honeymoon he'd taken in India. 

Sherlock shifted his cards slightly. In a chair next to him, Mrs. Rothschild smirked and pressed the glasses up her nose. Sherlock watched her from the corner of his eye. She was half mad; a quality which she personally mistook for wiliness. She smelled like harsh perfume.

Sherlock blinked at his own cards and manufactured a tremor in his right hand. "John, shut up about India. It's boring."

The abrupt comment was met with hoots and muffled laughter. Old ladies uncrossed and recrossed their legs. John brought his gaze reluctantly to Sherlock. The familiar warmth of his eyes was eclipsed by clenching brows and irritation. It was physical, that look. It was like being pushed backwards. It expressed an appalled, compulsive need to chastise the aberrant element. John was giving him that look because time turned people normal.

There was silence for him to answer. "Sherlock, you're clearly the only one not listening at all, so how the hell would you know if it's boring?" Then John's smirk breaking through. He cast his charm on the others, right past Sherlock. "No, he doesn't have a tell, Mrs. Rothschild. He's doing that on purpose."

And the ladies tittered in response. The drinking had made John even more gregarious. When John smiled, he looked younger than anyone should be allowed under gray hair. Sherlock huffed and sank back to rearranging his hand, a small, corresponding smile on his own face. His heart was busy trying to explode in his chest.

He scooped the chips to his corner without a word, flopping his cards back into the pile. The conversation simmered around him like he'd left the radio on. John laughed while joking about his Mary's cooking, then started talking about how he'd met her in the first place. There had probably been a banal segue in there, which Sherlock hadn't felt like hearing. The happy couple had bonded over a shared belief in Sherlock Holmes. Irony. He'd known that before, couldn't even delete it. It just kept coming back.

Mrs. Feint dealt him two aces. He genuinely didn't care. He just swallowed and shifted, placed an appropriate but slightly misleading bet. He glanced up again and John was still smiling, watching him now.

Every time John passed Sherlock to get another beer or to help someone make their way to the door, he ran his hand along Sherlock's back. It was confusing. It tickled and made him angry and he didn't want it to stop.

Sherlock. Come on, Sherlock. I miss you. I really wish you'd respond. JW

Watson. SH

Stop calling me that. JW

But that's your name. There's a party at Mrs. Hudson's in an hour. Something about a baby or a marriage. SH

Or divorce possibly. SH

This might be a wake. SH

Right… you're asking me to come or you're saying you're busy? JW

She told me to invite you a week ago. SH

Prick. Tell her I'll be there. JW

This is a very strange party. SH

I said I'd be there. JW

I think it is a wake but I can't figure out whose. They've mentioned at least nine different dead people within a span of ten minutes. SH

Don't you dare leave, Sherlock. JW


	2. Chapter 2

An hour or so later they'd relocated their game, now with a drastically diminished pool of players, to the kitchen table. John was by then noticeably impaired. He'd also fallen silent about his marriage. He was asking questions of the aged guests in a manner aimed shamelessly at self-promotion: tending towards war and work, since they all found his profession so endlessly impressive.

On the way to the kitchen, he'd stumbled on an upturned patch of carpeting. He'd balanced himself against Sherlock's back, bringing his warmth flush with Sherlock, and Sherlock was chewing on the inside of his own lip, thinking about it, hating that he was still confused by the piling up gestures of intimacy.

When someone came that close, it usually meant physical combat. He would form a strategy and his mind would adjust to it, phasing out the confusing signals of warmth and human comfort, going straight to the far more straightforward business of personal defense. But with John, now, he didn't know what any of it meant. John seemed to have resumed his habit of social subtleties and omissions. John 'missed him'. Brilliant. It sounded like something more, but literally promised nothing. Anyone could miss anyone, it was just words, it floated off like smoke.  
John was supposed to tell him what it meant. They used to touch like that after long cases, and John would say it was just nice sometimes, to touch someone like that. Since they were both alive and breathing. It was nice.

John seated himself on the other end of the table.

John continued talking, set his cards face down while his arm moved in a recognizable fashion under the table. He was manipulating his mobile, periodically glancing down to align his thumb with the keys.

Sherlock's phone buzzed. He pulled it from his jacket, already reluctant.

Look, we could cheat. JW

His eyes trained on the incongruent innocence of John's face. He was talking to Mrs. Hudson about sconces or something equally irrelevant. When he turned back with a conspiring look, Sherlock pointedly moved his mobile from his lap. He texted John in full view of the table.

The gesture of defiance met with blank, unchallenging looks all around. No one knew about technology.

I assume you mean at cards, rather than on your wife. Stop suggesting things without really suggesting them. SH

John reddened slightly, which Sherlock found infuriating. The man had to know what he was doing and yet he had the nerve to blush like that. As if Sherlock was the one being inappropriate. And he still kept his phone hidden as he texted back.

Sorry. Drunk. JW

Sherlock just glared. The game had started and he wasn't paying attention. A woman next to him with a very small hat inexplicably patted his hand. He hurriedly accepted the champagne she was offering.

"Are we toasting something?" he asked dully, not looking at her as he keyed in a response. He didn't catch the answer, though he gathered a yes from the raised glasses.

Yes. You are drunk. SH

Well you're letting people win and you're not acting like yourself. SAY something to me. JW

Sherlock read the message with a blank expression. He then tossed his mobile indifferently over his shoulder.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson scrambled to her feet. "You almost hit poor Mr. Harrison! Nothing, Mr. Harrison. Drink your tea." Mrs. Hudson leaned over Sherlock, patting his shoulder. She set the mobile by his hand. "Really, Sherlock, he's an older gentleman, very myopic."

"Then he wouldn't have known who to blame, would he?" Sherlock responded stiffly.

"Really! Must you be so careless with everything? Even your own property? For heaven's sake!"

"What's your name again, young man?" someone asked. Someone dissatisfied with the events that had just transpired.

"Sherlock Holmes," John answered for him.

Sherlock looked at the table, straightening his cards into a neat pile while Mrs. Hudson resumed her seat.

"What?" The person was either hard of hearing or refused to recognize the name.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said. He drew in a breath and began speaking very quickly. "But there's no reason to hear it properly and even less reason to remember it. I know Mrs. Hudson through her ex-husband, whom she'd have been better off not knowing in the first place. If you ever know me, which is unlikely nearing impossible, it will certainly be owing to some tragic circumstances befalling you or a loved one. A murder, a theft, an interesting kidnapping; and really under those circumstances, I'd love a glass of bubbly and cup of tea. We'd have a wonderful time. But right now is far from conducive as my ex-partner is throwing a tiff because I've been letting you all win for the past four hours and because I'm ignoring him. Although it's curious that he only started complaining about my behavior when he got through telling asinine personal anecdotes about elephants and marital bliss. A bit self-obsessed, don't you think, Watson?"

Mrs. Hudson's mouth was hanging open. John just hung his head and pushed his chair back to stand.

"I need to talk to you in the hall, Sherlock." The tone was menacing and tired.

Sherlock ran a hand over his mobile, hesitant. The second he stood, he'd be walking towards redundant rejection. With a petulant glance at no one in particular, he pocketed the phone and made his way ahead of John.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock paced the length of the hall, turning when he heard the door clicking shut behind him. John was staring back with an expression slightly more naked now that they were alone. At least he was affected. That was something to note. Even if he wasn't behaving anywhere near rationally in response.

Sherlock ran both hands through his hair. John followed the motion with his eyes and Sherlock watched the recognition settling on his face. Fine, it was a gesture of frustration. It wasn't as if his frustrations were a secret.

He snapped at John, "Yes, what? You were angry with me. Please elaborate on it quickly. Do you realize there are seventeen different types of cat hair in that room and half the carriers are allergic?" The last had been bothering him for hours.

John gave a small laugh and pushed himself from the door, closing the distance between them a bit too quickly. He swayed, closed his eyes briefly and leaned on the wall. Sherlock warmed at the proximity, his rage marginally abating as he watched John closely. All the same he huffed at John's play for physical contact and refused to help. Together they smelled the way their flat used to smell.

"Let's start with… then," John said. He shook his head of swimming thoughts, then nodded when he found the right one. "Do you realize how often you refer to me as your ex-partner? D'you realize what that sounds like?"

That question and yet John was inching closer. Sherlock clenched his jaw. The pads of John's fingers made a slow, aching sound along the wallpaper. He was dimly aware of his own body reacting, how much he was squirming. There was an itching in his hands, behind his eyes and knees.

"I very seldom find it necessary to refer to you at all," he answered irritably.

John laughed. "Only because you never see me. And you only never see me because you never return my calls, Sherlock. And you haven't gotten this riled up because you're indifferent to all–"

"You're useless on cases!"

John looked up at him with big, hurt eyes. Sherlock took a quick breath to marginally soften the edge on his voice. "In particular as a married man with a regular job. Too hampered by organization. My needs come at odd times and you know that, John."

John ruffled. "You're talking about business needs, not your –"

"Yes, you miss me," he snapped, jumping ahead. "That sentiment is proving deeply irrelevant."

"Yes. I miss you. That's what friends do and you know it's not -"

"Yes, exactly, John. Exactly. You miss playing house with a friend. You miss making appropriate life plans but then getting mercifully distracted from them by a sudden uptick in danger. You can't get that back and also have your lovely, normal life in the suburbs with the returning limp and the decreasing need for motility. Don't you see they mutually contradict?"

John took an uneven breath, eyes on Sherlock's lips. He hadn't wanted to hear that and by the look on his face Sherlock could tell he still refused to know it. Hence the alcohol, no doubt.

He suddenly leaned again Sherlock's chest with closed eyes, nuzzled his forehead once against Sherlock's neck.

Then Sherlock cleared his throat and broke away. He moved around John, opened the door and found his way back to the party. He was almost blind with rage when he seated himself at the table. He picked up his cards, glanced quickly around, placed a bet and felt Mrs. Hudson's hand on his shoulder. That's when he remembered to breathe.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock offered no explanation for what had just transpired, nor did he acknowledge John's continued absence, which came as no surprise to him.

He'd brought back a palpable tension. His breathing was sharp, his back was straight and tense and he kept assaulting his own hair. No one wanted to speak to him, which he worked in his favor. Now he could focus – really think.

Mr. Harrison had been abruptly moved to the seat on his left, where Mrs. Rothschild had presumably dragged him. He was just sitting there blankly, blocking her cards with a look of mute apprehension behind thick frames. And she was guarding that hand jealously. Too jealously. It didn't spread to her eyes. She wasn't toying with her lip in actual excitement, more in mimicry of such. No actual tearing of her lip. It was an act. Conclusion: a mediocre hand.

Further along, Mrs. Hudson was at a loss without John next to her, and moreover kept shooting harassed, concerned little looks at Sherlock. She didn't care about the game enough to bet properly, or to even have a tell, but she was holding her cards loosely. She was practically shouting them at the whole table. Conclusion: two pair, low.

To his immediate right, Mrs. Feint in the tiny hat was humming and clinking her dentures. He'd already realized the denture-clicking meant she was thinking. And judging by that impractical wardrobe and that barrage of clashing, expensive jewelry, she didn't think very deeply when experiencing a windfall of luck. Conclusion: a terrible hand.

Sherlock wordlessly won three games in a row.

"In my day…" Mr. Harrison muttered, without finishing.

Mrs. Rothschild smirked at him and crouched further down the table. "I'm wise to your shenanigans, young man," she declared. "Let's see those arms. You've got cards in there. Roll up your sleeves." She patted her own hand on the table.

He grimaced and complied.

"Having a functioning intellect is 'cheating' as much as knowing you've recently contracted chlamydia is a 'party trick.'"

Mrs. Hudson seized on the moment. "John's gone home has he?"

"Don't be ridiculous. He's in my bedroom."

Mrs. Hudson spluttered and Sherlock began to deal the next hand. When the cards were out and all four people had cleared their throats - all mindless talk of azaleas having ceased abruptly - he gave a long-suffering sigh.

"Well, he's too drunk to have gone home, too John to still be in the hallway. Logical conclusion, he's wandered back to 221B, and he's both angry with me and nostalgic, so he's checking my bedroom for cocaine. Also, he's been texting me this whole time-"

Mrs. Rothschild scoffed and he cut her off, "That's not cheating that's utilizing technology!"

He exchanged challenging looks with Mrs. Rothschild until she relaxed into a huddle with Mr. Harrison. He glanced at the rest of the table, flinched at the motherly, scolding expression on Mrs. Hudson's face. It wasn't fair, that look. He muttered and handed over his mobile.

I still have my key, you know. JW

Obviously. SH

Shut up. JW

We weren't playing house. JW

You are a hoarder. JW

Why don't I just drop in on you? Why do I care about an invitation? JW

You're afraid of what you might find. SH

Your collection of dehydrated organs? Already found that. JW

Who you might find. SH

He watched Mrs. Hudson carefully. Her opinion on the subject mattered more than he liked to admit. She'd been the one to tell him about John's engagement. Not even John had been able to broach the subject once Sherlock returned. There had been several reunion meetings, filled with increasingly obvious omissions, and though Sherlock had known from the start – God, the signs were practically neon and flashing – the actual words from her mouth had hurt. Irrationally hurt.

He vaguely remembered the wrenching, whimpering sound he'd heard coming from his own throat.

Mrs. Hudson glanced at him over the mobile with a look that said 'Stop answering him, then.'

John ran a hand over Sherlock's unmade bed, smoothing the warm sheets, before he just gave in and climbed under the covers. John used to sleep there. Sometimes. Not often, but sometimes. Whenever the nightmares came back. He shelved it in his mind as PTSD, and anyway he shelved the whole of his relationship with Sherlock as unusual, atypical. It didn't follow the mold of an ordinary friendship and he'd stopped trying to control it.

Now he pulled the blankets over his head, willing away his stupor. God, how he missed uncontrollable. Uncontrollable fixed him.

Before 221B, John used to have dreams about the war, some more nightmarish than others. Sometimes he'd see himself in action, the war all around churning out debris and bodies. That, he could handle. He served a function in that. He sewed up the wounded. It was cathartic.

The bad dreams used to start the same as the good. Some explosion, some influx of bodies, some need for a Doctor John Watson with steady hands and a sharp mind. But they'd flicker out at a high point of adrenaline, before he could fix anything. They'd lead him up a hill, make him survey mayhem from a distance and then they'd wake him, sweaty, impotent and faraway. He'd wake up having failed.

The dreams changed when he moved in with Sherlock. He began to sew bodies with a tall, brilliant man looking over his shoulder. He practiced impossible works under impossible circumstances, resurrecting corpses dragged from the Thames, performing surgeries in open fields. And Sherlock would crouch, tell him exactly how unsterile the work was, how impossible, how restoring life to dead organic matter was the work of gothic madmen.

"There are no heroes, John," he usually whispered in John's ear. "Caring about them won't save them."

Still, they were good dreams more or less. Under the covers, John pulled the phone from his pocket and sent another text.

I keep having this dream. I'm looking for you in the wrong building. JW


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock's eyes dropped, alighted on the beeping mobile, then jumped back again to Mrs. Hudson with an expression of deep, pitiful desperation. His chest suddenly ached, needing to read John's new message. It was an awful, swarming sensation. Not a product of any intention. 

With forced patience, he watched Mrs. Hudson read the text. Her eyes grew in calmness, then brimmed with intuitive understanding. It was the exact sort of understanding Sherlock would never quite possess. He'd never be able to speak whatever language he needed to maneuver through this, not when John was bound and determined to avoid cohesive, clear explanations of his social needs. And Sherlock was finding it impossible to quantify his own emotional responses enough to sort them into their component parts, to be experimented on individually, with strict enough parameters to achieve conclusive results. 

Ever since Reichenbach, everything he felt was edged in desperation and emptiness. Reminiscent of the frantic, lopsided mental state he'd experienced as an addict. He wanted John's comfort and it was gone. Its old, consistent warmth against his back was now a space filled only by air and pain. When John came close it was only like this, like today, with emotional games that went right over Sherlock's head. He knew just enough to know he couldn't handle it very well, or for very long. 

Mrs. Hudson was right to shake her head and keep the phone away. He knew that and yet the schizophrenic hallucination of an aching heart just kept right on going. She dialed a number while Sherlock just sat there. Complaisance softened his features and he focused on pointless little things like the thread count in the tablecloth and the faded wear of the poker chips, relative to each other.

"Mary, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked politely. Evidently she received an affirmative response and continued. "Yes, this is Mrs. Hudson, love. Your husband's had a few too many I'm afraid. Such a wonderful man, yes, perhaps too affable but of course there are worse qualities, aren't there?"

Sherlock wanted to leave. His forehead hurt from furrowing and his nails were digging into the kitchen table.

"Oh, Mary Watson? Is Mary coming now?" Mrs. Feint asked, hat tipping on her head. She pulled on a string of pearls.

Mrs. Hudson nodded, mouth open as John's wife prattled audibly through the receiver.

Sherlock growled and Mrs. Feint glanced over in vacant surprise.

"Something I need to give her, you know," Mrs. Feint added. Sherlock didn't know. His mind had been recording the conversations about Mary, but he hadn't been actively listening. He scanned through quickly, found the corresponding exchange and nodded gruffly.

"Indian connection," he muttered.

"Yes, my son knew her father of course," Mrs. Feint repeated herself.

"How lovely for them," he answered.

"Yes, yes, lovely. Both dead now but, lovely no doubt. Such a colorful country, isn't it? Took a grand-niece there to see the Ganges. The food went straight through me. Not my-"

Sherlock groaned over the remainder of her commentary and Mrs. Hudson hung up the phone. She stood, pocketing it. "I'll go check on him dear, get him some tea, you just continue chatting."


	6. Chapter 6

Mary Watson was a reasonable woman, in no way stupid. She replaced the receiver on her land-line telephone because she was an old-fashioned woman, too. She sighed and took a seat, looked around her small flat.

John was drunk at Mrs. Hudson's, which of course meant Sherlock was somehow involved. Drinking on its own would've meant Sherlock; would've done before his miraculous return from the dead, and certainly did now. Increasingly many things meant Sherlock. Grumpy after work meant Sherlock, wearing an old, thread-bare jumper meant Sherlock.

Mary Watson wasn't a stupid woman, but she was an even less reactionary one. These things were side-notes in the larger picture of their marriage, their life together. And even if John's feelings for Sherlock weren't entirely platonic, then throwing a tantrum would hardly make it any better.

She daintily lit a cigarette and waited patiently for her companion to return from the loo. She blew a smoke-ring and admired her work with a sharp eye, smirking softly at the sound of a toilet flushing. It was quickly followed by running water, and then a door opening down the hall. She patted the neat little chignon at the back of her head.

Jim Moriarty shuffled in with an annoyed backward glance. He wore a gray T-shirt and faded jeans. A consequence of needing to remain unnoticed for years on end, he was actually beginning to feel at home in them. 

"The 'his and hers' bath towels may have been overkill," he commented.

"You're certainly the expert on overkill," she said. Her tone was slightly petulant, despite her best intentions, and she stubbed out the dying butt to light another.

He chuckled softly and poked the tip of her nose. “Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?” When she didn’t answer, he continued in the same sing-songy voice. "The good doctor lets you smoke now?"

He took the seat opposite, grinning broadly while his foot never completely stopped moving. It just shook out an obscene rhythm across his knee as his brow fell into a dark malaise. She shrugged and his smile broke.

"Ah, well he probably misses the smell.”

Again, her lack of response spurred him on. "Sense memory. Missing his long lost Sherlock Holmes…" and his voice became strained. "God, isn't it just so-"

She mouthed the word 'boring' along with him. 

Suddenly something bothered him and he whined and rubbed at his forehead. His whole body seemed to vibrate with restraint, a visible threat of violence.

“I let you have Watson. I let you KEEP his pathetic existence!”

She sat forward, short of breath as she just barely kept her voice from becoming impatient. “In exchange for a perpetual tap on Sherlock's comings and goings, yes. You still have that. My personal indifference to your cause has no bearing on the bargain we've struck.” 

He slackened and pulled back, apparently shaking away the wave of emotion with a warm smile. "Soooooo... Johnny does have a type after all. Even if he doesn't much differentiate below the belt." He gave her a knowing little smirk. 

She rolled her eyes before casting them down at her nails: long ovals painted deep blue. "I believe we're both aware you're projecting your own jealousies right now."

His response was slow-coming, like a storm brewing behind his eyes, and when it broke, his chair clattered to the ground as he rose abruptly. His hand met her jawline, holding her still as he kissed her on both cheeks. She huffed out in surprise and tried to pull away, but his gentle hold grew rough, holding her firmly in place. His eyes held with hers, an abyss of blackness. There was nothing much there to communicate an emotion, save his lower lids' sagging and the chronic redness of a night owl. Yet, as she stared, those unblinking black holes exerted an endless sadness that made her feel short of breath. After not long, she had to close her eyes and look away.

His phone rang. Well, not exactly RANG. One of the first things he'd done after the fall, after taking off his bloody coat and vomiting into a bag he'd preemptively tucked in his inner waist pocket, was change that Staying Alive tone to another.


	7. Chapter 7

The living room of 221B had seen better days. It had seen worse, but then at the time its sole inhabitant had been dead.

John hadn't occupied the flat in Sherlock's absence, but neither had Mrs. Hudson rented it out again. There had been vague talk over drinks about turning it into a Sherlock Holmes museum, but generally only John and Molly thought the idea had any merit.

There was no longer a three-year layer of dust on everything. There was, however, a literal box of bones in the corner, a broken accordion on the coffee table and ten stacked apple boxes in front of the bookshelf. Maybe twenty percent of the books were actually on the shelves and, against all decency, there was a saber protruding from the wall.

"Really, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson muttered to herself, taking it all in.

She lifted a men's fashion magazine to tidy up. A pile of gruesome crime scene photos skittered to the floor. With a shocked cry, she dropped the whole project and put the kettle on.

"John?" she called.

Sure enough, a muttered response came from Sherlock's room. Honestly, the man was always right. But the voice sounded a bit muffled.  
She left the kettle to go see.

What she found made her gasp and clutch her necklace. It was a pitiful sight, honestly. Not the first time she'd seen John in Sherlock's bed, but certainly the first in many years.

"Oh, really, dear," Mrs. Hudson puttered over, patting John's shoulder. "Love, you know whose bed you're in? No telling what strange experiments happen in this room."

John groaned and covered his head with the blanket. The images swimming to his mind were quite graphic.

"Yes, I know, quite a handful that man. But that's why we love him, isn't it?"

At John's second groan, she rubbed his back and softened her voice. "Tea's on, dear, and there are a few biscuits in the cupboard, you'll feel right as rain." She sighed slightly. "And I've called Mary. She's on her way."

John's spine went rigid under her hand. "Does Sherlock know that?"

She huffed. "And how would I keep it from him?"

John sat up, rubbing his eyes. "And he hasn't left yet?"

"Well as far as I know, he's still downstairs. Taking advantage of senility, the hooligan."

She jumped at the sound of the kettle whistling.

John drank two cups of tea. As calmly as possible, he tried to get his head around seeing Mary in 221B, seeing Mary interact with Sherlock at all. He hadn't seen that since the wedding, which had absolutely redefined the term 'fiasco.' In the first breath of his best man speech, Sherlock had outed three different people in the wedding party. He'd also explained ad nauseum how diseases spread when people dance 'incorrectly,' given the most recent London divorce rates, reminded everyone that husbands and wives are always the first suspects in cases of homicide, given an historical account of what marriage 'really' signifies, a scientific breakdown of the urine content in wedding mints, and then somehow or other, he'd convinced the wait staff to mutiny and withhold an entire crate of champagne.

He sighed heavily, heard another cry of protest from Mrs. Hudson. She'd begun cleaning the living room again. But this cry was different, higher and more specifically chastising.

Sherlock walked into the bedroom. He walked smoothly, but with very evident purpose. He locked the door behind him.

John was still in bed, the cup of tea cradled in his hands. His face glowed with innocence. There was a moment of pause as Sherlock took in the sight of John under his covers, looking perfectly at home.

John smiled timidly.

"Um… Care to join me?" he joked.

Sherlock didn't react, he appeared to be thinking. His eyes weren't connecting with any one thing. "Not exactly an opportune moment to seduce me. You're even more idiotic than usual and the negative side-effect of your overindulgence include, among other things, a rather shocking olfactory component."

John winced, his head beginning to pound. "No reason for that, I admit I've had too many."

"Approximately two hours before you recover your mental faculties."

"Well I'm still well capable of taking offense."

"Well, that couldn't be more obvious. You tried to hug me, I refused you and you stormed off to curl up in my bed like a petulant child." He sighed. His voice had strained on that last. "But as ever, you've missed the point."

John swallowed more tea. He closed his eyes as the warm liquid filled him, felt it coat his throat and stomach. "Yeah, what's the point then?"

Sherlock promptly sat on the edge of the bed, uncontrollably smiling. "I found a case."

"Yeah? And you need your bed for it?"

"I need you for it."

"Oh shut the hell up, two minutes ago you said –"

"I know what I said, it was actually over an hour ago and this is different, John. It involves you."

"Oh, how?"

"Well, Mary. It involves Mary, a seventy year old woman and a stolen antique cigar box."

John set down his tea and covered his face. Sherlock waited patiently. Finally John looked up, inexplicably red all over.

"These are the kinds of things I had to defend when people thought you were a fraud. D'you… do you ever appreciate how difficult that was to do?"

Sherlock chose his words carefully. "Well… yes. You failed at it. So I assume it was fairly difficult."

"Oh for the love of –"

"Think about it," Sherlock's voice had turned stiff. "But only you can guarantee your wife's cooperation and I would appreciate your assistance."

Then Sherlock was getting up, and then he was suddenly gone.

Seconds later, John heard him in the living room. He was explaining to Mrs. Hudson the scientific purpose of a stack of porn.


	8. Chapter 8

Mrs. Hudson was alone in the living room, gathering papers together and avoiding Sherlock’s experiment-laden kitchen table. After giving John his second cuppa, she'd been alone in there for long, harrowing minutes with that mess.

Her eyes had stopped roaming too far, now too terrified to look, and instead she was focusing on smaller projects. After getting the least objectionable items straightened in a given corner, she moved on. 

Before Sherlock arrived, causing her to shriek and spill her own tea, she’d forced herself to stop fussing. She was being silly anyway, frittering away time with the symptoms of a problem and ignoring the source. She was reminding herself in a mantra that she was not Sherlock’s housekeeper, no matter how like a son he was, and no matter the recentness of his miraculous resurrection.

And then Sherlock arrived and she spilled her tea. He burst in with that tell-tale frantic energy, dark curls sticking in all directions, eyes focused and wandering along a landscape no one but he could appreciate, and it took her a moment to notice he was a bit more off that usual. 

He pivoted from place to place in a distracted manner, took in the slight alterations to the room and realized Mrs. Hudson was upset about the mess. 

Her teacup returned promptly to its plate. “Sherlock, you can't go on living like this, it's unhealthy and… really, putting a crème-brulee torch to a… well, to a severed hand is unsightly, not to mention… I’d imagine a fire hazard. Do you even have an extinguisher?” 

Her chastising tone fluttered away. Sherlock’s eyes weren’t reacting to her. They remained fixed on an invisible point, turned beseeching for a moment, for no clear reason, then shifted again. There was a certain desperation in them she hadn’t seen for years.

And then he was pacing, fingers steepled together as he stepped over the piled magazines, avoided an apple crate and paused momentarily by the mantle. 

When he met eye sockets with the skull, he held there for a moment in silent contemplation before muttering, "Right, yes, I've been meaning to..." 

He awkwardly lifted and gathered the nearest avalanche of books into a pile.

“Sherlock-” she started, uncertainly, as if approaching a wounded animal. 

He ruffled at the tone and crossed to his bedroom. He entered, shutting the door with finality. 

She tutted for a moment, wiping her hands down the front of her dress. Mustn’t ignore the root cause of things, she told herself. Don’t get distracted by the symptoms of a greater problem. In the end, it was just the excuse she needed to pull his mobile from her dress pocket and scroll through his phone history.

He’d placed a number of strange calls in the past twenty-four hours. Still, Mrs. Hudson knew what she was looking for. The tell-tale signs of an illicit affair soon greeted her: five calls to the same number in just the span of a week, each only a few seconds long. The number wasn’t familiar and it didn’t seem to be local. She scrolled back in time and found they went back months.

After only a second’s thought, already planning to blame arthritis when Sherlock inevitably confronted her about the invasion, she hit send on the number. It would be impossible to reason with him unless she had evidence anyway. And he was a good boy, despite it all. He’d recognize his folly if she could just make him face it.

Half expecting a shout from the other room, Mrs. Hudson nervously raised the phone to her ear. 

*

/ I’m in the corner watching you kiss her. / Oooh. / 

Surrounded by the rush of London, people jostling by in couples, making their way to neon-lit clubs and restaurants, Jim blinked heavily when the music started up again. Then, stepping to the side through heavy walking traffic, still playing a bit of a doofus and taking a bit too long with it - 

/ I’m right over here / Why can’t you see me? / Oooh. / 

He’d been about to go underground, to board the Circle Line and help Sebastian sort out whatever difficulties he’d managed to accumulate by blackmailing his faculty advisor. 

/ I’m giving it my all, but I’m not the girl you’re taking home. /

But of course, he should’ve known everything with Sebastian took at least a second if not a third call for verification. The price of being dead and starting over: your lackies had to be inexperienced. He jammed a hand in his pocket to dig out the mobile, barely keeping his rage hidden behind a dopey, expectant grin - 

/ Oooh. / I keep dancing on my own./

The phone said ‘Sexy.’

His smile faltered into a look of piqued focus. He answered immediately and said nothing. Everything in him went still, strung too tightly to do anything but listen.

Even over the sound of pedestrians, he could still tell it wasn’t Sherlock. Sherlock’s breath either rumbled out as deep as his voice or it was silent altogether. This woman kept swallowing, nervously, and her jaw was clicking.


End file.
